Sherlock Holmes at Hogwarts.

Chapter 602 You will regret it

"No need to look so surprised, Harry."

Sherlock glanced at the dumbfounded Harry and said in a calm tone:

"People often take things for granted and overlook the fact that the real clues are often hidden in these details."

Recounted memories undergo subjective filtering by the narrator; only firsthand experience can capture the crucial information that might otherwise have been overlooked.

Once Sherlock spoke, Harry was immediately speechless.

This confirms what Dumbledore just said:

Both Sherlock and Voldemort were skilled at persuading others, but Sherlock relied on irrefutable logic.

Dumbledore didn't seem to care about the little incident earlier; he continued to smile and ask Sherlock and Harry:

"Who wants to enter this memory first?"

Sherlock, as always, gestured for Harry to go first, and then followed.

This time, as soon as Sherlock's feet touched the ground, he found himself back in the headmaster's office after leaving it.

Phoenix Fox was curled up asleep on the golden perch, its long tail feathers covering its sides, its breathing even.

The person sitting behind the desk was the same Dumbledore from this memory, almost identical to the Dumbledore who followed him into the Pensieve.

The only difference is that she has slightly fewer wrinkles on her face, and the sense of vicissitude in her eyes has also faded a bit.

The office furnishings are basically the same as they are now, with only one difference—it's snowing outside the window.

Large white snowflakes drifted slowly past the window in the deep darkness, silently piling up on the windowsill and enveloping the entire room in a cool and serene atmosphere.

Judging from the environment and Dumbledore's appearance, this memory should have occurred several decades ago.

The younger Dumbledore sat behind his desk, his hands clasped on the table, his expression calm, as if waiting for someone to arrive.

Sure enough, not long after, there was a soft knock on the door.

“Come in,” Dumbledore said in a gentle and steady voice.

Harry almost cried out – the person who appeared at the door was none other than Voldemort!

But having learned from his previous experience, he managed to hold back, though he subconsciously clenched his fists.

Even the usually composed Sherlock showed a hint of surprise in his eyes.

So far, Sherlock has only seen two forms of Voldemort:
One is the monster attached to the back of Professor Quirrell's head; needless to say, it's an ugly freak.

Another one is Tom Riddle, who was handsome and dashing in his youth.

Sherlock not only saw this image in the Pensieve through the memories of others, but also directly communicated with the image constructed from Riddle's Horcrux diary in the Chamber of Secrets in Slytherin.

To be honest, Tom Riddle put even more pressure on Sherlock than the real Voldemort.

He has a clear mind, is meticulous, and is not brainless.

If we hadn't suffered from the information gap, we might have actually let him succeed.

And now, he has seen the third kind.

The person before me still bore the outline of Tom Riddle, but his face looked as if it had been scorched by fire.

Its facial features were blurred and twisted strangely, like melted wax.

His eyes were perpetually bloodshot, exuding a ferocious and malevolent aura.

Sherlock glanced at him and immediately realized that this guy must have been addicted to dark magic for a long time, and his soul and body had been severely corrupted, which was why he looked like this.

Voldemort wore a long black cloak, the hem of which trailed on the ground, stained with water droplets from the melting snowflakes.

His face was deathly pale, no less so than the snow outside the window, and he exuded a chilling aura of oppression.

Noticing that Dumbledore behind the table showed no surprise, Sherlock immediately concluded that Voldemort's visit was clearly pre-arranged.

Good evening, Tom.

Dumbledore showed no surprise when he saw Voldemort's face, remaining completely relaxed.

He pointed to the chair in front of the desk. "Please sit down."

"Thank you."

Voldemort slowly walked to the chair and sat down, his voice hoarse like sandpaper scraping:

“I heard you became the principal; that’s a respectable choice.”

“I’m glad you agree,” Dumbledore said with a smile. “Would you like a drink? Wine or mead?”

“Thank you very much,” Voldemort said. “I’ve traveled a long way and am quite thirsty.”

Dumbledore stood up and strode to the cabinet where the Pensieve was now located.

The cabinet was filled with all kinds of wine bottles back then.

He took a bottle of wine from the shelf, poured a glass for Voldemort, and then poured one for himself. He then took the glasses and sat down at his desk.

"So, Tom... what brought you here?"

Dumbledore was the first to break the silence.

Voldemort did not answer immediately, but simply picked up his glass and took a small sip.

His gaze slowly swept across the office, as if searching for something.

"They don't call me 'Tom' anymore."

After a moment, he put down his glass, a hint of boastfulness in his voice, "Now I am known as—"

“I know what you are called.”

Dumbledore maintained his cheerful smile, but rudely interrupted him before he could utter "Voldemort."

"But to me, you will probably always be Tom Riddle."

This is probably one of the annoying things about being a teacher—they never completely forget what happened to their students back then.

He raised his glass, assuming a toast with Voldemort.

Voldemort did not raise his glass, but simply looked at him coldly, his eyes full of displeasure.

"I'm surprised you've been here for so long."

After a moment of silence, Voldemort abruptly changed the subject:

"I've always wondered why a powerful wizard like you never wants to leave the school."

Of course, there's nothing wrong with teaching and nurturing students—but the political arena offers you a much wider world to explore…

“I don’t think so, Tom.”

For a wizard like me, nothing is more important than passing on ancient skills and training young minds.

Dumbledore said firmly:
"If I remember correctly, you also saw the appeal of the teaching profession, didn't you?"

“I can still see it now.”

Voldemort said, a complex light flashing in his eyes:

“I’m just wondering why you—someone who is frequently consulted by the Ministry of Magic and seems to have been nominated for Minister of Magic twice—would be willing to stay at Hogwarts.”

"Actually, it was three times."

Dumbledore spoke casually, even having the leisure to correct the other person:

“But a career in the Ministry of Magic has never appealed to me—that’s exactly what we have in common, Tom.”

Voldemort lowered his head, took another sip of his drink, and remained silent.

Dumbledore did not break the silence, but waited patiently with a pleasant expression for him to speak first.

"I am back."

After a moment, Voldemort raised his head and looked directly at Dumbledore:

"It may have been a little later than Professor Dippert had hoped... but I'm back nonetheless."

“Why don’t you make yourself clearer, Tom?” “Haven’t I made myself clear enough?”

I came back this time to reapply for the position he said I was too young to hold.

I have come to ask for your permission to return to this castle to teach. As you probably know, I have seen and done a lot since I left here.

I can teach your students things they can't learn from other wizards.

Dumbledore gazed at Voldemort from above his wine glass for a moment before slowly speaking:
"Yes, I know you've seen and done a lot since you left us."

His tone remained calm, yet carried a subtle hint of seriousness:

"Rumors about what you did have also reached your alma mater, Tom."

I would be very sorry if even half of them were true.

Voldemort's face remained expressionless; he simply said calmly:

"Greatness arouses jealousy, jealousy leads to resentment, and resentment breeds lies."

You surely know this, Dumbledore.

"That's well said, but are you sure you want to call what you've done 'great'?"

Dumbledore took an elegant sip of his wine, his rhetorical question tinged with sarcasm.

"of course."

Voldemort's eyes seemed to instantly turn bloodshot, and his tone was filled with fanaticism:
"I've conducted numerous experiments, and may have advanced magic to unprecedented heights—"

"It's 'some' magic."

Dumbledore calmly corrected him:

"Just 'some' magic, Tom."

But in other respects, you are…excuse my bluntness—pathetically ignorant.”

Voldemort smiled for the first time.

Unlike Dumbledore's ever-present smile, this was a disdainful, mocking laugh.

Add to that his now disfigured face, with its evil and twisted expression, which is even more chilling than rage.

"You're still sticking to the same old arguments."

Voldemort said softly, his tone full of disdain:
"But Dumbledore, nothing I have seen in the world proves your famous point:"
Love is more powerful than any magic I possess.

"Perhaps you're looking in the wrong place," Dumbledore gently reminded him.

"Then where would be a better place to begin my new research than here—Hogwarts?"

Voldemort then changed the subject, returning to the topic of coaching:
"Will you let me come back?"

Can you let me share what I've learned with your students?

I entrust myself and my talents to you, and submit to your command.

"Listen to my accusations?"

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, a hint of inquiry in his eyes:
"And what about those people who follow your orders?"

What about those who call themselves—or supposedly call themselves—Death Eaters?

Voldemort's eyes flashed red again, and his nostrils, which were like slits, widened slightly, clearly stung by Dumbledore's words.

Seeing this, Sherlock raised an eyebrow and whispered to Harry:
"Interesting—he didn't expect Dumbledore to already know about the Death Eaters."

Clearly, Dumbledore's direct use of the term "Death Eaters" greatly surprised Voldemort.

“My friends—I believe they would continue without me,” Voldemort said calmly.

“I’m glad to hear you call them friends,” Dumbledore said, with a hint of amusement in his voice. “I thought they were more like servants.”

"you are wrong."

Voldemort's voice already betrayed a hint of embarrassment and anger.

"So, if I go to the Pig's Head tonight, I won't see those guys—Nott, Rozier, Murseb, Dolokhov—waiting for you to come back, will I?"

Dumbledore, still speaking casually, accurately named several people:

“What a loyal friend I am, having trekked so far with you through the snowy night, just to help you find a teaching position.”

Dumbledore's knowledge of his entourage undoubtedly made Voldemort even more displeased.

His gaze grew even colder: "You are still so all-knowing, Dumbledore."

"Oh, not at all, I just have a good relationship with the local bartenders."

Dumbledore said casually, then put down his empty glass, sat up straight, and touched his fingertips together to form a triangle.

Sherlock saw this pose and felt it was somewhat familiar.

"Now, Tom..."

Dumbledore's tone became serious for the first time:
"Let's talk this out—why did you bring your men here tonight to apply for a job that you both know you don't want?"

Voldemort's face showed a hint of surprise:
"A job I don't want? Quite the opposite, Dumbledore, I want it very much."

“Oh, you do want to go back to Hogwarts, but you don’t actually want to teach any more than you did when you were eighteen.”

Dumbledore's gaze was sharp as an eagle's, piercing straight to the heart: "What do you really want, Tom? Why can't you be honest for once?"

Voldemort chuckled coldly, his tone dripping with sarcasm: "If you don't want to give me a job—"

"Of course not."

Dumbledore interrupted him without hesitation:

"Besides, I don't think you're expecting me to give it to you."

But you still came and submitted your application; you must have some ulterior motive.

Voldemort suddenly stood up, his face contorted with rage.

At this moment, he no longer resembled Tom Riddle, but rather the evil Dark Lord.

"So...this is your final decision?"

"Yes." Dumbledore slowly stood up, his tone firm, leaving no room for compromise.

"Then we have nothing to talk about."

"Nothing."

A deep sorrow appeared on Dumbledore's face, and his eyes were filled with regret:

"I could scare you with a burning wardrobe, but the time to force you to reflect is long gone."

But I hope so, Tom... I really hope so..."

For a fleeting moment, Harry almost shouted out a useless warning.

He clearly saw Voldemort's hand suddenly move to his pocket, obviously wanting to reach for his wand inside.

But that moment passed quickly, and Voldemort ultimately restrained himself.

"Dumbledore, you will regret your decision today."

"Tom, I am the principal."

Voldemort suddenly turned around and strode toward the door.

The door slammed shut behind him.

His figure disappeared completely.

At that moment, Dumbledore also grabbed Sherlock and Harry's arms.

The next second, they were back in the principal's office in reality.

No snowflakes were falling outside, and the wrinkles on Dumbledore's face returned to their original appearance, deep and weathered.

(End of this chapter)